Words
by DukeGirl2001
Summary: So, I thought I might try this one word prompt thing, since nothing else seems to help me write these days. Most of these will probably be short, but we will see…(all Lizzington).
1. Sand

Sand

Her long legs stretch out towards the ocean, the rolling waves illuminated by the setting sun. He watches her gracefully uncross her feet at the ankle and dig her toes into the sand. Her toenails are painted pink. _Pink_. A skinny band holds her windblown hair back from her face and the fashionably large sunglasses, _as to fit in here in Europe_, she had said, rest on the bridge of her nose.

She senses his approach, some sort of Raymond Reddington radar that she has developed over time, or maybe it has always been there, either way. The salty breeze displaces the sand long dry on her shins and blows it to the striped blanket beneath her.

She can't hear him. The trees sway, their dark fronds tangling and releasing. The call of a seabird draws her attention up, and the gentle monotony of sound that is the ocean at the shore covers up any other movement. But she knows he's there. Watching her, as he is apt to do. She smiles but doesn't turn.

Her skin, still fair due to the practiced usage of sunscreen, contrasts with the black top and blue bottom of her bikini and he traces the skin in between with his eyes. He knows the rise and the fall of each of her breaths, the dip and the swell of her hip bones, her chest, the taste of the skin there.

He watches her. She flips her sunglasses up.

She raises her arms above her head, extending them to their full length, and stretches. The pull of her muscles a welcome relief after the hours on the sand. She must have dozed off. Her kindle fallen to the side and switched off.

She likes it here. Wherever they are. This place with the sand and the beach and the trees.

And him. He is still behind her. She can feel him. She smiles.

A second bird joins the first and suddenly the avian line fills the sky turning this way and that, the leader gliding into place at the front of the formation, and they head out to sea.

Their calls still echoing. Together.

He likes to watch her like this. It's never an intentional act. He doesn't plan to stop and stare, to just look at her. But he does. And it is in these moments, these moments where she looks so young, so free, and, most of all, so _alive_, that he feels the remainder of the world fall away.

When she looks so at peace, and beautiful, and free. When she is _his_.

When he can trace the lines of her with his eyes. See her and remember her the night before. Remember her cries and the way she moved with him, beside him, when he was with her. When she was _his_.

See her and anticipate…anticipate the moment when he will walk across the sand. Lean down and press his lips to hers. Lean down and kiss her.

Because she is _his_.

He gets to do that. He gets to be the one that kisses her. She allows it. She wants him to, wants _(and that thought, he hasn't quite gotten there yet, let himself believe that he might be so lucky)._

And she kisses him back.

And in this moment, here on the sand, he feels joy.

And it is such a foreign sentiment for him. Such a long time removed from his life that he is amazed, everyday _amazed_, that joy has seen it fit to possess him again.

He is a lucky man, Raymond Reddington.

She was_, is_, his second chance.

Because she loves him.

Because he loves her.

And he walks across the sand.


	2. Rain

Rain

(Takes place several weeks after the end of season one.)

She sees him stretched out in the main room. His still form in quiet contrast to the storm raging around the house. He reclines against the soft back of the sofa and props his feet on the sturdy center table. He gazes downward and she half expects to see the salmon hued pages of the _Financial Times_ spread across his lap but instead she sees a book. A novel it appears.

He surprises her sometimes, like this.

He turns the pages slowly, not so much reading the words but scanning the titles and allowing himself to remember a time when reading was a chosen pleasure rather than a necessary avenue of escape.

The rain pelts the windows, water running down the pane in fat rivers, and he finds himself grateful for this day, inside and nowhere to go, with her.

His attire consists of a black t-shirt and denim jeans and the look is so startlingly _not_ the Raymond Reddington that she has come to expect that she finds herself openly staring and unable to move forward out of the doorway.

He turns towards her briefly before returning to his book and she can make out the black frames of glasses perched on his nose and she _can't even deal_ with this difference.

She has worked with, observed, and traveled with Raymond Reddington. Has felt, thought, and fought with Raymond Reddington and has (mostly) put _that_ Raymond Reddington inside a box inside her mind – but _that_ Raymond Reddington is one man and _this_ Raymond Reddington is certainly another and the person in front of her _does not belong in the box_ in her mind.

He is too real.

And the normalcy of it all unsettles her.

The rain pounds against the roof and she glances up before looking back down at him and she hopes the noise of the storm has kept him unaware of her presence in the doorway.

He knows she's back there, he can feel her eyes on him, and he wonders why he doesn't care that she observes him like this, unprepared, without the Raymond Reddington layers. That he made some unconscious decision when he woke up and showered this morning to let that persona rest and just be.

His left shoulder hurts, an old injury seemingly aggravated by all the travel as of late, and it feels good to be without his usual stiff attire.

She seems him reach his hand up to massage his shoulder, can feel the pressure his hand applies as if he presses his palm into her own skin. She wonders why it hurts.

She wonders why all of it hurts.

The lengths that he has gone to in order to protect her, the things she has seem him do, are at odds with the man in front of her and it is hard to reconcile her mind around the idea that _he feels pain_. And that realization hurts her too and she wants to make the discomfort stop.

He hears her footsteps approaching across the floor behind him and he starts to open his mouth to say her name but stops himself. Lets whatever is to transpire unfold unhindered by his actions.

She stops behind the couch and looks down at him. Sees her hands move to his shoulders. Both shoulders, the good and the bad, and presses down firmly. She hears his intake of breath, surprise, relief, or pain, she's not really sure but he _doesn't_ tell her to stop.

She massages the muscles that she imagines give him problems and the lets her fingers rest lightly on the fabric of his shirt. His shoulders are wide, wider than she had previously realized, and strong. The bulk of the muscle usually hidden beneath his tailored shirts.

She likes that, the feel of him on her skin. Almost.

Her job seemingly finished she turns and walks wordlessly back out of the room. The distant click of her door shutting is the only sound other than the rain. He exhales and places his hand where hers has just been and imagines hers still there.

_Someday_, he thinks, and the thought makes him smile and the smile releases the tension he didn't even know he was harboring.

In her room she tries to focus on the screen in front of her but all she can think about is the way he seemed a moment ago, just an ordinary man (except not ordinary at all, most of all not ordinary to her), and she imagines that she can still feel the strength of him beneath her hands.

Someday, she thinks, and lets the daydream take it's own course in her mind.

_Someday_.

Outside the rain comes to a stop.


	3. Flash

Flash

(for FanaticalCreation, thank you for the prompt)

_thump, thump._

Flash –

The sinewy arms of the entryway light fixture cast ominous shadows on the wall of the hallway.

Where is he? He should have been back hours ago. Shouldn't he be out here somewhere? In the living room, drinking that often present glass of scotch, staring out the window or something else Raymond Reddingtonesque?

Boom.

The continuous roll of the thunder shakes the wood floor beneath her bare feet and seems to echo both in movement and sound around the room.

Flash –

The dining room chairs, the table, full of rustic charm in the daylight appear mysterious and foreboding in the split second illation afforded by the lightening.

She should be sleeping, not wandering about the house, but really, where_ is_ he? She hasn't yet fully adjusted to this life on this run, this constant change, the continuous string of homes that _aren't_.

She reaches for the light switch adjacent to the bookcase and moves the plastic switch up. Nothing. The storm must have knocked out the power.

But he's always back by now. No matter what errand. What chore. What meeting he has to take, he's always returned by this late hour.

The clock ticks, close to her ear, the ever present staccato making it to her ear despite the cacophony of sound from outside.

_thump, thump._

She hears the noise again and strains to detect the direction from which it comes.

Boom.

The china teacups in the ancient cupboard rattle and shake and she braces for the sharp sound of porcelain breaking, but it doesn't come.

Her nerves are shot. Her senses on high alert. She tells herself it's the storm. The noise. The darn thumping. Not him. Not worry about him. Not worry about where he might be and what might be happening and what if he's hurt.

An image of Red slumped against a wall fills her mind and she feels it, feels the pain of seeing him down, and then pushes the image out of her mind…it's _not _real.

Flash –

In the iridescent light, purple and blue almost, beyond the glass paned door she sees a spot of darkness. A form. A human sized form.

Fear and hope and fear and hope.

Boom.

She reaches for her sidearm that isn't there. Being on the run with Raymond Reddington has afforded her a false sense of security and her preparation for unanticipated instances such as these has fallen to an embarrassingly low level.

_thump, thump._

If it's someone coming for_ her_ does that mean that something's already happened to _him_? That they (and she has no idea who they might be) found him? What if…

Flash –

A person, a man, stands outside the door and that's all she can see before the room plunges into a loud darkness again.

She reaches her arm out to where she thinks she remembers a brass lamp standing on and end table and grasps empty air. Darn it. This isn't like her to allow herself to be so defenseless.

She moves her hand farther to the right and locates the heavy lines of the light and she picks it up with two hands moving it to her side.

Flash –

Boom.

She creeps towards the door, crouched low, out of the intermittent line of sight of whoever stands out there.

Her pulse races. Her heartbeat competing with the sound of the thunder.

Boom.

Her feet meet the front wall in the darkness and she leans forward to peer through the sheer window curtains.

Flash –

The person outside stands hunkers under the shallow porch overhang and moves his fist against the door.

_thump, thump._

Flash –

The person, the man, reaches his hand up to grasp his shoulder and moves towards the door again.

_Red_. She exclaims.

Dammit. She swears, and she's not sure if it's her toes colliding with the oak bench beside the doorframe or the realization of her extreme r_elief _that make her say the word aloud.

Fat drops of rain splatter out of sight onto the entry mat and –

Flash –

- she wonders why he's not inside yet.

Flash –

She looks down and sees the transparent white of his shirt plastered against his chest and he looks like nothing in the world is amiss. Nothing unusual about his knocking on the door in the wee hours of the morning in the middle of a torrential downpour.

Red.

She leans forward out of the dry darkness into the storm and, grasping his shoulders, pulls him forward into the house.

He stumbles a bit and then rights himself. Her hands still braced on his shoulders.

Boom.

He feels her hand touch his face. Her fingers warm and cautious.

Flash –

He glances up at her.

'I forgot my key.' His tone apologetic. He's unaccustomed to sharing a home, a life, an anything with anyone besides Dembe.

'What were you doing?' Her voice holds notes of something tenuous and unfamiliar.

'Had some errands.' He spares the details.

'Didn't want to wake you but I figured breaking a window might be cause for alarm.' A crooked ghost of a smile graces his face.

'What happened?' The tinge of something he can't place still coming through her words.

'Nothing Lizzie. Just took a bit longer than expected, that's all.' He switches on the battery powered Coleman by the door.

Why hadn't she noticed that before. Her thoughts scattered and unfamiliar.

'You weren't worried about me were you?' He means it as a joke. A smile playing on his lips.

He peels the soaked jacket off his arms and back, throwing it over the sturdy coatrack. Water drips to the floor.

'Worried I couldn't take care of myself with Dembe away?' He chuckles to himself and reaches down to unlace his waterlogged shoes. Pulls them off and lines them up neatly by the door.

'I assure you that…' his jovial tone dies on his lips when he stops to glance up at her face. Her eyes shimmer and something, _something he has not seen in so long and only in her eyes _appears and causes his heart to catch painfully in his chest.

'Lizzie,' he moves his hand up to her face. Caresses her cheek tenderly. Softly. 'Lizzie.'

'No, no, I wasn't…' she tries to cover it up but gives up.

'Yes,' she says. Simply.

And he knows what that yes means. Yes, she was worried about him. Yes, she was concerned about his safety, what happened to him, that he made it back ok.

And it was on that yes that the world seemed to pivot.

'Lizzie.' He says her name again. Pulls her to his chest, ignoring his rain soaked clothes. 'I'm sorry.' For what he's not entirely sure. Scaring her, yes. Making her worry, yes. Being who he is and inserting himself irrevocably into her life, probably (but he rather likes her here).

She doesn't notice. Just inhales the sent of him, the feel of him, and he is strong. Curls into his chest and ignores the cautious thoughts trying to make headway in her brain.

And she feels herself letting go.

And he feels himself letting her in.

And so ends the beginning.

**A/N – So, I don't think that this is my best writing, but…I have decided to go ahead and post this in an effort to keep writing something everyday. FanaticalCreation, I actually had another idea that came to me for Flash and I'm going to work on writing out that one over the next couple of days. So maybe call this one Flash – version one **


	4. Flash - Version Two

Flash – Version Two

_FanaticalCreation – thanks again for the prompt._

_Takes place sometime in the future – in the Someday perhaps._

He holds the door by the metal L-shaped handle and lets it click softly closed behind him, all the while fully facing her. His eyes locked on hers the moment he stepped over the marble threshold and his focus stays unblinking.

She purposefully runs her gaze over him from across the room. Starting with the dark fedora, charcoal or navy, it's hard to differentiate in the low light. Briefly down his face and taking in his pinstriped shirt, still neat and unwrinkled, his vest, still buttoned fully, his trousers, his dark shoes. He doesn't wear a coat.

His hand remains on the handle and he holds himself absolutely still, the only movement in the room the thin stream of compressed air coming from the window unit. His eyes rake over her – her dark hair, loose and fallen, her eyes, the blue that reaches out and takes him, the dark, dark red of her mouth. His gaze moves down, his body still stationary, sees her pressed jacket, tailored pants, the unexpected sliver of lace peeking out delicately above her top coat button.

She takes this moment while his eyes are busy taking her in to observe his face, his cheekbones, his eyes, his lips, the graceful turn of his neck. The strength and the fortitude that comprise his every inch of being.

_You made it_, she says, her words bringing his gaze up to her lips, her eyes. She stares at him for a moment, unblinking, unmoving and sees his equal response. She returns his gaze for another moment, losing herself in the depth she sees there, the power. The undeniable force between them. She opens her mouth slightly and runs the tip of tongue over her top lip, feels the roughness of her teeth as the her tongue slides across. All the while her eyes on him.

Watching him and waiting for the reaction.

He feels the beat of his pulse quicken and he watches her watching him. Moving her tongue, beckoning him forward with her eyes. His heartbeat drumming in his ears.

The muffled noise of an approaching storm beyond the heavy curtains, the tempered glass, the only other sound.

She sees his pupils dilate. The darkness, the depth, overtaking the deep green of the iris and pulling her in. She lifts her hands from her sides and so carefully, so slowly, begins to deliberately undo the buttons of her coat. His focus absolutely on her she slides her arms out of the jacket and lets it fall soundlessly to the floor. She reaches for the front of her trousers, frees the button, and shimmies her hips then steps forward and out of her clothing. The delicate French lace of her camisole the only thing covering her now.

She sees the change, sees him fall into the moment, and the look he gives her is almost feral and the intensity, the _intensity_ of the look he gives her almost feels like it is _burning her soul_.

He advances on her slowly and deliberately, shedding layers of clothing with each step. First the vest, the shirt pulled swiftly from the waistband of his pants and then off with one sweeping movement, the shoes. He reaches the square of floor inches away from her, pausing, the electrified pull between them so strong he's somewhat amazed that he still exists separately from her. He takes his hands, so slowly, so carefully, and places them on each side of her face. Holds them there, his elevated heartbeat thrumming through his veins and making his fingers jump infinitesimally.

She feels the subtle movement. The erratic intake of his breath, the way he almost vibrates with intensity as he stands only barely, only _ever so_ _slightly_, touching her.

And she feels her control falling way, feels herself speeding headfirst down this road that leads only to him. The visceral charge with no ability to change paths. The level of her_ need_ for him, of absolutely having to have him makes her hesitate and blink before –

He holds himself steady as long as he can. Retains control as long as his body allows. Tastes the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth, unaware that his jaw clenches so hard that he breaks skin. His muscles quiver and then - he - lets - go.

He closes the distance between their bodies just as the approaching storm makes landfall and it's_ almost_ as if the surging current between their bodies causes the room to go dark and fall into utter blackness.

She hears the ragged intake and outflow of breath and she isn't sure if the sounds come from her or from him, only vaguely aware that she is walking backwards towards the bed, his hands, her hands, his lips, her lips, his focus on her the entire time.

He feels the softness of her skin, runs his hands down her arms, her sides, lifts the thin material of her remaining clothing up and over her head and then throws it as far away as he can, the garment disappearing noiselessly into the darkness.

She counts the steps as she travels backwards, knows that the edge of the bed will hit the back of her thighs in just a second, and it does, and she holds on to the muscles at the back of his arms and she pulls - him - down - with - her onto the mattress.

He groans when he feels her skin against her own and the heat that has already generated between them grows and he feels himself absolutely letting go and freeing his mind and _not even aware of any other thing_, any other moment besides the one that he is in right now.

She feels his lips as they approach her and she runs her tongue over her skin again, tastes the lipstick as it disappears and then all she tastes is him. _Red_. Sweet, and salty, and absolutely _hers_.

He feels the rising pull of what she is doing to him, what she has done to him, and although the room is completely without light, he feels like there is a fire growing between them that will either consume them willingly or take them without their consent.

He brings himself forward again and though he can't see her he can hear her soft moans and see in his mind the way she holds the sheets balled in her hands and arches upward. Feels the way she meets him perfectly like this was meant to be. Like this was all meant to be. Like she was meant to be with him and he was meant only to be with her and that's the way the universe was always planned.

He's losing any fragile grasp he had on any control he attempted to hold onto and before he knows it he's pulled her up with his forearm and her skin meets his own from head to toe and he is lost. _Entirely _lost to her.

The storm, raging and pounding outside increases its fury and it's like nature and the inhabitants of the room are one and the same.

She hears him stop, hold himself abruptly still and leaning so close to her face, so almost against her but not, whisper something unintelligible and she has to force herself to contain her breathing in order to make out the words.

_Flash. _

The lightening strikes the ground outside and in the iridescent illumination of the room she sees his features above her and the look in his eyes is so pure, so true as she watches his lips to make out the word hisses from a primal place deep within –

_Lizzie._

And the room goes dark again.

**A/N – I like this one better.**

**A/N – I'm enjoying these prompts…leave a comment or send me a note if you think of an interesting word and I'll try to run with it.**


	5. Umbrella

Umbrella

"It's your birthday tomorrow," she says casually.

Red looks momentarily puzzled so she adds, "your file", as an answer, her lips turning up in an honest smile.

"So it is…" he replies, as if he hadn't given it any thought, which is mostly true. Birthdays are complicated beasts.

"What do you want to do?" Her hair blows in the wind and the leaves swaying in the trees above them makes her words hard to follow.

He raises his hand to the brim of his fedora and leaves it there to keep the hat from blowing away.

"I don't honestly know," he says it loudly and in her direction. The words traveling through the gusting air.

"Surely there most be something?" A genuine smile plays across her lips and her intonation is playful. "Deep sea fishing in Antigua, dancing in Havana, an Indy car event in Milan?" Her fingers brush across his jacket near his elbow. "Surely there must be something?"

He stops walking for a moment and turns to face her, taking in her facetious expression and he fails to hold back a snort of laughter. "Because those all sound like _terribly_ pleasant birthday excursions, right Lizzie?" He lets out a short laugh and begins moving forward again, this time at a more brisk pace.

He hears her footfalls quicken and a second later her hand grips his arm again. "Maybe I'm not thinking big enough then? Black jack in Venice, a trek across the Sahara, a polo match with the Queen?" She laughs at the ridiculousness of her upped ante.

"No, no, no", he shakes his head from side to side in mock frustration, "none of those seem quite right." He purses his lips as he pretends to ponder the question.

On each side of the path the trees start to whip one way and that, the approaching storm quickly overtaking the public park through which they are strolling.

"Red," Lizzie catches up with him again and gives him a pointed look, she had just been trying to make conversation, really. She remembered his birthdate from the folder Agent Cooper had handed to her over a year ago and, geez, the man could be hard to make small talk with sometimes.

He surprises her by stopping stock still in the middle of the gravel path and bringing the dark fedora down to his chest.

"How about having dinner with me?"

She readies her mouth to throw back a witty retort but the look she finds when she moves her eyes to his is curiously unguarded and she wonders if maybe he means it.

"I can make a reservation at Dolce." She throws out the name of the fanciest, snobbiest restaurant she can think of and figures she'll find a way to get a table. It seems wrong somehow for Red to set up his own celebratory dinner.

"How about the beach?" He responds, and despite the drops of rain starting to smatter the ground, he hasn't moved.

She moves her hand up to cover her head and routes around in her bag for her travel umbrella. "I wasn't aware that Dolce had a beach location." She knows the darn thing is in here somewhere.

"No, Lizzie." He takes her arm in his hand and she forgets what she's doing and her gaze bounces between his hand and his face. "Just dinner on the beach, on a blanket. We can pick something up along the way. I'm sure there are plenty of delicatessens near that part of the shore."

She looks so puzzled that he keeps talking. "Dembe picked up a good bottle of Merlot too." The kindness of his smile wars her despite the cold rain and she feels a bottleneck of emotions rising up inside her. He knows Merlot's her favorite.

He knows a lot of things.

"Out of all of the places, out of all the people, out of all the extraordinary adventures you could take part in tomorrow, you want to spend the evening sitting on the ground eating cold pastrami on rye?" She teases him, tugging his sleeve a bit to get them moving, the predicted torrential rainfall appears only seconds away.

"I want to spend it with you." He responds.

And she forgets about the rain, the umbrella, and possibly even her own name.

"Ok…" she stutters. Glued to the ground unmoving.

"Great." His mouth turning up in a smile.

With that he takes her hand, says nothing more, and reaches inside his coat. His free hand retrieves a ridiculously small umbrella which he hands to her and he hurries her along the path.


	6. Blue

The morning sun rising over the pine forest bathes the bedroom in yellow light. The hand scraped floors, carved headboard, and worn churn dash quilt folded on the bed are tinged with gold at this hour.

He glances over at the clock on the wall, it's half past 7 in the morning. He can't remember the last time he slept in this late.

He opens the closet door and runs his hand across the shirts hanging in a neat row. He moves quickly past the crisp button downs and heavy sweaters, hesitating momentarily on a blue cashmere v-neck. His thumb idles over the soft material and his thoughts travel back to the night before, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Xxx

They had arrived late, the darkness of the hour preventing her from taking in the beauty of the dense woods surrounding the house. Prevented her from seeing the planted garden out front, nearly in bloom, the wood swing gracing the end of the porch, the dock out back. The lake beyond, the moon reflected in the water.

The air outside had been chilly, not unpleasant, but new in the way that happened every year when the winter finally surrendered to the spring and color began to creep back into the mountains.

He had suggested that they meet out back, after depositing their bags in their respective rooms. There was a stone fire pit in the yard after all, and it would be nice to enjoy the outside after spending much of the day closed into first the airplane and then the car.

She had agreed, and quickly headed to her room.

He had always enjoyed the mountains. Loved the quiet peace that came at the beginning and end of the day. The promise of new coupled with the reminder of how some things never really changed.

He built the fire carefully. First walking to the side of the house and uncovering the roughly cut wood covered by a canvas tarp. Selecting the best pieces. Then hovering over the creation, lighting the kindling first and tending to it patiently before adding the larger pieces of wood.

The fire had already reached full burn by the time he heard her approaching down the steps from the back deck. She was wearing tennis shoes, he could tell by the soft sound of her approach, by the practiced way her feet fell onto the small gravel at the edge of the grass, by the way she moved towards him.

His heart had clenched then, remembering that the fire that brought him peace out here, that made him feel like this home was really _home_, was most likely the least comforting presence to her and he felt disappointed in himself for his error and lack of planning. Lack of empathy.

Not that he hadn't been there with her. In that fire.

He turned towards her then to apologize, suggest that they move indoors, when she spoke out of the darkness beyond the flames.

"This is nice Red."

And her words were unexpected so he didn't say anything in response.

She moved then towards him, passing behind his back with a gentle hand to his shoulder, before settling on an upended tree stump moved to the perimeter of the fire circle years ago.

The hand on his shoulder was new. He had to fight not to place his hand where hers had been.

They sat there in silence for a long time before either of them spoke.

"You seem different," she said. He waited but she didn't elaborate.

It occurred to him then that he did probably appear different to her. The worn jeans and heavy chambray shirt hastily tucked in at the waist were a far cry from his usual bespoke attire.

He had somehow forgotten that she was here, _here in his home_ (the real one, not the places that he called home but really only served as two day respites from repetitive hotels), and had thrown on a usual outfit without consideration that _this_ version of him (the him that was always there underneath it all) was not someone with whom she was acquainted.

He suddenly felt bare despite the layers covering his body.

"The blue," she had said then, gesturing towards his shirt, her face hidden in shadow, "it looks nice on you."

Her voice sounded almost shy and he was certain that it was an emotion that he had not seen from her before. And she had remained quiet after that. Sitting and staring into the flames, or into the space beyond, taking a sip from the bottle he offered ever once in awhile but saying no more.

He felt a warmth in his chest that had been so long absent that he first blamed it on the heat coming from the fire before realizing that emotion, not physical combustion, was causing this heady feeling. And he _knew_.

It had been a long time since anyone had commented on him. It had been a long time since he had brought someone home. _To his home_. Even if she didn't know that _that _was what this was, this dwelling in the hills.

Xxx

Thumbing through the rack he lingers over a simple hooded sweatshirt. The cuffs and hem stretched and slack after years of wear. Pulling it from the hanger he slides it over his head and smooths the soft fabric. Slipping on his glasses he makes his way to the door and beyond that to the kitchen.

He can hear the coffee maker working and knows she is awake.

Passing the entrance to the family room his reflection in the wall mirror catches his attention and he stops for a minute to contemplate the difference. He looks present he thinks. Relaxed. _Happy_.

And he walks on into the next room.

Throws a good morning over his shoulder while pretending to busy himself with looking for a particular coffee cup. Rinsing it first in the sink before filling it from the pot. Small drops of water landing on his shirt.

_Making it darker blue._


	7. Glass

Glass

_For the Guest who left the prompt – thank you._

All she sees is glass. And Red. And blood. And rage. At whatever, whoever, what _anything_ – what _anywhere_ led to this…and she rushes forward to where he lies still on the ground.

The pavement wet with evening rain and all of everything smelling of hot humid asphalt. And the smell of blood. Metallic and lingering and –

She reaches him in a matter of seconds, a matter of heartbeats, and she feels the edges of the shards find purchase in her skin but no pain registers as she reaches her hands farther out – the reaching takes forever but no time – and finds the side of his neck.

_Still warm_. His skin soft and slick and _still warm_. Her heart beating one off in a sigh of relief and she looks up to find Dembe's shoes even with her line of sight.

_He's still here_. She hears herself say, and she's not sure if Dembe thinks that she means that they (whoever they are, Berlin? her father? Another adversary?) left him _here _on the street or if he interprets her true meaning that he is _still here_. That Raymond Reddington is still here on this godforsaken earth and for that she remains in theory upright and functioning.

She leans back in and feels along his neck, strains with two fingers, and there it is again – a pulse, slight, tentative, but there. Definitely there.

She remembers walking into his hotel suite – how long ago was that now? Months, days, years? It seems like it has always been like this. Lizzie. Red. Together – no punctuation in the middle. She walked into his suite and tore her hands across the side table. Rage and fury and anger (not unlike now) determining her judgment her movements, and she had pushed that pen into his neck and there had been blood.

But that had just been blood of a man, of an enemy, of a person who only existed as a photo on a white sheet of paper in a government office and this man in front of her – same man, same blood – was _Red_. And, oh my god, she can't lose him now.

She glances up again and sees a familiar black sedan rounding the corner, windows up and tinted, traveling at a high rate of speed. Mr. Kaplan. _Mr. Kaplan_. She says it again out loud but really for herself. Mr. Kaplan will put him back together. Put them all back together.

She sees him in her mind, how he must have hung from the chains in the warehouse. How Anslo almost took him, but didn't. How Anslo almost took her, but Red traded his life in exchange for hers and she should have know it then but didn't. Or didn't let herself anyway. Think about it – think about Red.

And Mr. Kaplan had come that time too, with the Calvary, and they had been too late. Or so she had thought.

And then he had come back and maybe, _maybe_, if she thinks about it now – watching his blood navigate the shallow maze of the paving stones and pool – oh god, it must be too much if it has started to pool – she probably knew it then, when he stood there unassuming in her living room.

Mr. Kaplan is out of the car now and right at her side, _Red's_ side, and seems to be less concerned than Lizzie but still has a frown on her face.

_He'll be all right_, _dearie,_ she says. But Liz doesn't believe her because that's what anyone tells anyone else when they want them to calm down and not get in the way of the being all right. In the middle of the saving or dying or whatever is really going down.

She leans down over his body, touches her lips to his ear (still warm), and whispers sweet words to him because now, there might not be another time. And the words have been there forever but she hasn't spoken them aloud.

She remembers him widening his eyes in surprise as she stood, waiting and fidgeting, for him in a red dress in a house that wasn't hers but wasn't his either. How the appreciation was there and it made her think things, feel things, but she had said nothing just smiled and then he had taken her hand.

She should have told him then.

But she didn't. And now there is so much glass.

Above her Dembe talks to Mr. Kaplan and they say words, words, words, which seem to indicate that he shot back and they (who are they?) got away. Hence the glass. Hence the blood.

She leans back in and repeats the words to him but his eyes don't open. All of him stays so still and when she hears the siren of an ambulance she knows that Mr. Kaplan was lying. That he won't be ok or they wouldn't have called for the paramedics because paramedics operate in the pedestrian world and will know who he is and that he does not. Operate in the pedestrian world with freedom that is.

The scream of the siren reverberates off the brick buildings and the approaching lights bounce across the fractured glass and she's _scared_. Hot and cold and not sure this is real. And so, so afraid.

She tells him this, in his ear, and repeats the words. And tells him she's sorry she didn't say them sooner but she wasn't sure if he wanted to hear them or not and what would she have done if he did?

And that world of _what if_ that used to terrify her has become the only place she wants to be in this moment of glass, and blood, and people who do not know him.

She places his hands on his cold ones and begs him not to go. To stay with her. And to know.

He has to know.

The uniformed technicians spew forth from the ambulance and go about assessing and asking and strapping him to a stretcher.

Taking him away. But from her vantage point it's clear that he is not dead.

And she'll stick with that for right now, thank you very much.

Mr. Kaplan approaches her from behind and pushes her towards the vehicle with the spinning lights and before she knows what is happening she's sitting on a vinyl covered bench watching them make him breathe and holding Red's hand in her own.

The streets begin to blur by in a hurry and outside she sees the buildings, trees, people pass and she realizes that no matter what happens she is ok to not go back to that world as long as she can stay with him wherever he is.

She leans over, amidst the tubes, and monitors, and hands, and whispers the words in his ear again and she knows this is serious and wills him to be ok…just to be ok…_even if he hates the words and never talks to her again_.

And the hand in her own twitches. And she looks at him and nothing seems to be happening but the _beep beep beep_ of the monitors and the frantic words of the driver talking to whoever is ahead.

And the hand tightens on hers and releases.

And she knows it – knows beyond anything before or ever - that her words are his.

And they speed on through the night.


End file.
